Piano
by TheStrangeAndBeautiful
Summary: Moments between House and his daughter... References to a major character death and teenage angst issues.
1. 17

**17**

I walk into the room and raise my eye brows. She's still sitting there, hunched over the desk, lamp hanging over strewn pens and paper and an empty coffee cup. Her long brown hair is waved messily down the back of her fitted yellow sweater, her petite frame covered by the back of the chair. I study her for a few moments before making my presence known.

'You should get some sleep.' I manage gruffly. She jumps ever so slightly and then turns around slowly. I know what expression she will have before I can even see her face. Lips pursed, eyes annoyed.

'Still working.' Is her short reply. Her voice is slightly husky and the dark circles around her eyes worse than last time.

I roll my eyes and move around so that I get a better view of her, leaning on my cane. I take another moment debating what to say. She is chewing on her lip, flicking her pen back and forth between two fingers.

Typical angry teenager; bad attitude, secretive, dyed hair and piercings, rude… I could go on. So why should I care? It's just a phase. Except I do care. Because she is _my_ teenager.

'Have you eaten?' Another scowl except this time she doesn't even bother looking up.

'I'm making pizza if you want some?' I try to sound bright but all I can hear in my voice is tiredness and sarcasm. Both because I know that she will refuse.

'Working.' Is her clearly irritated reply. I let my eyes flick over her once more before moving through to the kitchen. The good thing is, she works hard. Bad thing is, she's one of those highly achieving, puts far too much pressure on self, kind of girls. Not unlike her mother, I find myself thinking. Except that her mother didn't have all the anger and rebellion too. Well, maybe a bit. Good thing is, she doesn't have a boyfriend. Bad thing is, she likes to be alone. Not unlike myself…

'English?' I ask coming back into the room with a fresh coffee for her. I put it down in front of her and her expression softens, slightly.

'How'd you guess?' She forces herself to reply running her finger around the rim of the coffee mug.

'You only use a pen and paper for English. Everything else and you're glued to the laptop.' She raises her head in realisation and then nods slowly. 'You like to scribble when you're being creative.' I glance at the clock. It's 3 in the morning. I think about sending her to bed but she's 17 and can give as good as she gets… another trait of mine.

'I'm having some friends over tomorrow.' She tells me 20 minutes later, once I've settled in front of the TV with my pizza. Friends... that's good. Means she's still socialising now and again.

'O.K.' I don't know how else to reply. She gets up and moves in front of the TV; crosses her arms.

'My tutor thinks I should see a shrink.' I know I must look shocked but I can't help it. I let my eyes flick around the room, slightly sheepishly, slightly worriedly.

'I think you should get a blood test.' Is my final reply. 'You look anaemic.' Why? Why the hell did I say that? Her mouth opens as though she's about to retort but she slowly closes it again, a small frown lingering below her fringe. 'Sorry.' I try. It was the truth but wrong time to say it. 'What I meant was, why?'

'She said to tell you or she would.' She looks angry and I realise I've taken out my Vicodin.

'You didn't answer my question.' She sighs and shakes her head.

'I'm tired.' She starts to head for her bedroom. Typical teenager, I think rolling my eyes again.

'Ashleigh.' I snap, pulling myself to my feet with help of the trusty cane.

'What?' She swings around, hands flying to hips. I stop, stunned. For a moment she looked just like…

'You can't just come and go.' She says trying to keep her voice calm.

'Well…' I frown sarcastically. 'I have to leave the apartment in order to get to work… you know, saving people's lives and…'

'I mean from my life.' I don't get where she's taking this argument. I'm bad at all this teenager, girl stuff.

'You brought up the shrink.'

'Only because I was told to let you know.'

'Are you going to see one?'

'No.' Is her firm reply. I want to speak to her more but she's gone into her bedroom.

I spend my time at the hospital studying patients and trying to work them out and then I come home and spend my time studying Ashleigh and trying to work _her_ out. Except it's so much harder with Ashleigh because she's not a patient I can shove into a room and ignore. I have to speak to her, look at her, care for her… and all those annoying feeling get in the way. I close my eyes and sigh. Unable to think of anything beneficial that I could do, I head for the scotch and Vicodin – a popular option.

* * *


	2. 16

**16**

'I hate you so much!' 16 and crying and screaming; throwing the empty bottle of vodka across the park. Her friends, long gone… her face, streaked with mascara, her black hood shadowing her distressed face.

'Stop it!' I hissed back, trying to grab her arm. She was moving around, arms wildly expressing her feelings, sobs shaking her whole body. She dodged me until I gave up and hooked her elbow with my cane, pulling her close. The alcohol on her breath hit me and I clenched my teeth, trying not to explode. I couldn't believe it. Half an hour before and I was storming out of the hospital after receiving a phone call off of her oh so concerned friend. 'Ashleigh's a bit upset.'

'I hate you!' She sounded so passionate and so bitter that I flinched.

'You could have alcohol poisoning.' I pulled her towards the car.

'Get _off_ me!' She struggled. I knew that if I griped tightly she wouldn't be able to escape. But I also knew that it would hurt her. So a second later and she was backing away from me again.

'You're out of your mind.' She'd never had a drink before that night... never been interested. She'd also never screamed before… always so quite and calm.

'Like you were the night Mom died.' She said into the night, irrationally and angrily… _but truthfully_. It took a second to hit me. I reached for my Vicodin and knocked back a few. She was looking around wildly, trying to decide on an escape but she could hardly stand up properly so I knew she wasn't about to go running off into the dark park.

'Ashleigh.' I can hardly speak but know I need to get her home.

'It's your fault.' The tears kept streaming down her face. I was sad that it took vodka for her to let out emotion. But the sadness quickly turned to irritation and anger. It was truth that was old and stale in my mind but still just as hurtful.

'You're right.' I snapped nastily. She stopped still for a moment; shocked. 'Don't you think I know that? I felt anger rising and my eyes were sore with tiredness and slightly wet with misery. 'My leg hurt so I took Vicodin, drank whiskey and the next thing I knew I was being woken up by Wilson who told me they'd been trying to get in touch and I'd passed out and I'm so sorry House… Alison is dead!' I shouted to a now silent Ashleigh.

'And if you hadn't gotten wasted you could have gotten in the car and made it to your shift at the hospital.' She'd said slowly, her words slurred.

'And then you're Mom wouldn't have had to go and fill in for me, crashing her car on the way and dying!!' I yelled. At this she sank into the wet grass and sobbed in a heap on the floor.

I had never been more thankful at someone's morning after memory loss as I was the next day.


	3. Seventeen

**17**

She hasn't called me Dad. Not for 3 years. Sometimes, when I look at myself, I can't ever see the word 'Dad' fitting. It never really did. I always stood back and let her mother do the work. I was there for the odd snide remark to someone who upset her. I was the crafty sweet giver when Mom's back was turned. I didn't do feelings and tears. I was the one who spotted symptoms – hawk eyes scrutinising her every move. I worried and drove Wilson crazy with diagnoses. 'She's fine. She's a healthy baby.' Was always his reply. He was right. I didn't do piggy-backs and Barbie. My leg stopped the first, my awkwardness, the second.

She's clever, caring and beautiful. But she also has my anger. She's constantly fighting with herself – of course not helped by raging teenage hormones. But it hurts to see her battle with these two extreme personalities. I guess that's what comes when Daddy's a sarcastic idiot and Mommy's far too good for anybody's good.

'What would Alison have done?' Was Wilson's painful question. I swallowed an angry retort and shrugged.

'I don't know.'

'She would have talked to her.'

'She doesn't want to talk to me.'


	4. Sixteen

**16**

I wanted to stay in the house but she couldn't take it. Flitting between the rooms like a beautiful spirit with anger issues. Hanging around my bedroom… her mother's bedroom… but never going in. So we moved into an apartment… similar to the one I had before her mother became pregnant. I hid all the boxes marked 'Allison'.

'Have you had breakfast?'

'Nope.'

'Eat something.' I barked.

I knew she wouldn't. She had my stubbornness.

'What the hell is that?' My frown darkened. She pulled her sleeve down.

'I'm going to the grave today.'

'Show me your arm.'

'It's nothing.'

But it was something.


End file.
